


i owned the set of shoulders (that you came to rely on)

by fakenewsies (bigsleepsuperhighway)



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - College/University, Facials, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stress Relief, jack/davey is mentioned briefly, race is a math major & i swear by this, working title: calc homework is for VIRGINS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26643340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsleepsuperhighway/pseuds/fakenewsies
Summary: Eventually, he manages to get his lanky-ass body onto the bed and into Spot's arms, taking up all the space. All leg. He's still tight in the shoulders, but once Spot gets his hands on him he visibly relaxes, deflating in a way that's almost funny. Sighs, big and long and dramatic like he's on the cover of a dime-store romance novel. Buries his blond head in Spot's neck."Hey, champ," Spot says lowly, his lips at Race's hairline."Today sucks," Race replies, muffled. Really quiet. Half-joking, now.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	i owned the set of shoulders (that you came to rely on)

**Author's Note:**

> me, accidentally making a request 5k words long: OH YALL WANTED A TWIST?
> 
> title is from 'something to do with my hands' by her space holiday

_ "At the same time, the resistance 'R', in ohms, is increasing as the resistor heats up," _ Spot continues reading off the paper.  _ "The power 'P', in watts, dissipated by the circuit, is represented by, _ uh.  _ 'P equals V-squared over R' _ —and then it says to use a different equation to find how much the power's changin'."

Racer's face is screwed up trying to listen, eyes shut and brow furrowed as he swivels side to side in the flimsy desk chair with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. "Read the other equation," he prompts.

"It's—sorta long."

Race sighs, this clipped little exhale that says he's pissed. Spot winces. "Okay, gimme it, I'll look."

He'd thrown a pencil in Spot's general direction maybe ten minutes ago. Said  _ I can't even fuckin' look at this could you please come help me, _ even though Spot doesn't know anything about calculus, and gotten him to read this word problem out loud. At least Race is easing up a little, seems to comprehend it for the way his eyes are darting over the paper.

Race can do numbers, is the thing. Race has no issue with numbers. Fuck, it's what he's in college for; wants to teach 'n has his whole life, just to show kids math doesn't have to be so hard if you think about it in the right way. He gets this sort of  _ look _ on his face when he talks about it. Big starry-eyed excitement, like he can solve every problem in the world. It's fucking precious.

Letters, though?

Spot wouldn't consider himself a scholar, not by any stretch, and he'll say with confidence that Race is way smarter than he is, but. Race can't barely muddle through half a page of fiction without getting bored and giving up, which means that even though he could probably figure out this whole Calc III worksheet in his head, word problems are a bitch and a half.

Race tosses the paper onto Spot's desk and frowns. Spits his gum into the trash. "God, it's like—all the letters are blurrin' together. Can't hardly make sense of any of it 'n I'm supposed to be  _ good _ at this."

"Hey. Alright," Spot says gently, placating, placing his hand on the back of the chair to make him still. "You're good and you know you're good."

Race drags a hand through his hair, does that little sigh again. Half-shrugs. His face is hard and impenetrable, every bit a door that won't open like he always gets when he's angry.

It's hard to look at. "Somebody hasn't been takin' enough breaks..."

"I  _ know," _ Race fumes. Swivels in the desk chair just to kick at the table leg, shrugs Spot's hand off, but not unkindly. "You always say that."

Spot smiles at him carefully and hops up onto his bed, patting the space next to him. "And it's always true 'cause I'm always right... C'mere."

Race sighs, squints at him.

"Sweetheart," Spot says evenly.

Race pokes his tongue against his bottom lip. Pushes it out over his teeth. A signature move of his when he knows he's giving in and doesn't want to be, but he still gets up out of the chair. Spot smiles encouragingly at him.

Eventually, he manages to get his lanky-ass body onto the bed and into Spot's arms, taking up all the space. All leg. He's still tight in the shoulders, but once Spot gets his hands on him he visibly relaxes, deflating in a way that's almost funny. Sighs, big and long and dramatic like he's on the cover of a dime-store romance novel. Buries his blond head in Spot's neck.

"Hey, champ," Spot says lowly, his lips at Race's hairline.

"Today sucks," Race replies, muffled. Really quiet. Half-joking, now.

Even though he's not in school, Spot's familiar with the feeling. Equal parts just complaining to complain and genuine frustration, especially when you can't even do the thing you like without needing help. "Tomorrow might not," he settles on saying softly. "When's it due?"

Race groans, shakes his head, which itches against the thin of Spot's undershirt. His glasses creak. "It's just practice. But I kinda need it..."

"You need a break, is what you need," Spot says firmly. Mouth in Racetrack's hair, which is spun up and soft, still dewy from the shower he'd taken when he'd gotten back from his last class. "You've been workin' for, what, like, two hours straight? Give it a rest."

"If I could just—"

"Racer."

Pout. Another one of Race's signatures. Spot can feel it even through his tank top. "Spot. I  _ know. _ I'm just bein' anal."

Anal's one word for it. At least this means Spot doesn't have to remind him. "Yes, you are, so we're gonna sit here and we're gonna take a break."

"But what's the  _ point." _

_ "Hey. _ Quit arguin' with me," Spot chides, punctuates it by kissing Race quickly. Just once, just a peck, a reassurance and a cutoff at the same time. "Fightin' a losing battle, here, pal."

Race scowls. Pushes his glasses up defiantly. "You shoulda gone to law school."

And Spot laughs, surprised, louder than he means to.  _ "You _ sound like my ma."

They lay there for a while, just relaxing, Spot fucking around on his phone while Race lets some of that tension go, dozing on his chest. It's the companionable type of silence; Race seems to have worn himself out in his own upset, for all his ticking and fidgeting. Always the type to overwork himself until things stop making sense.

But they've been hanging around each other long enough that Spot knows what he needs. And it helps Spot, too, gives him some direction. Sets straight something that grows in crooked every time he wakes up in the morning and doesn't see Race beside him.

Eventually, after nearly an hour, Race stretches, arches his whole body tight and groans, cracking his neck. Spot slides his phone onto his bedside table and lets him lean and relax in turn, petting down the newly-dry curls at the top of his head. "Hey. Thought you were sleepin'."

Race shakes his head, sighs, smiles softly. "Nah, I still got work to do... I feel better."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

When Race pulls himself up to press his lips to Spot's, it feels less like he's allowing something in and more like he's letting something out, even if it's not as often Race moves for this brand of unwinding.

It's nice. Race is looser in Spot's arms than he was before, mouth chilled from the gum he'd been chewing. Sharp and sweet and mint-cold, and he's always kissed with this—insistence. This ever-present pushing of his jaw, like he's trying to convince Spot of something every time his mouth moves. Spot lets their tongues catch against one another, feels Race shiver just a little, deep tug in his stomach.

Still a little sullen, taut, but it's all left over. Not so angry anymore. Not so—closed up.

When Spot gets his hands up under Race's overlarge university sweatshirt, Race's chest expands into it, the slight cool of his glasses pressing into Spot's cheek. "You still rarin' to get back to work, smart guy?" Spot finds himself murmuring.

Race just sighs. Arches upward, with that soft mouth like he's piecing together a problem, head still full of formulas. "It can wait a while," he says, strained. "No harm in—in takin' breaks."

Spot laughs at him, just a little, and tugs him closer with both hands.

For a while it's just kissing, getting rid of both the space between them and the stress all wrought up in Race's body. So good Spot could probably live on it for months if he had to; all he needs is an armful of fussy towhead genius, half-hard in his pants when Spot skirts his fingers downward to move them.

"Up," Spot murmurs into Race's neck, grazing at it with his teeth.

"Up," Race repeats breathlessly. "...Up. Where's up?"

Spot laughs at him. "C'mere." Claps his hands onto Race's thighs and urges him onto his lap. Race makes this comical little  _ oof _ sound and goes, their noses bumping, still gentle.

"How's this?" Spot asks him lowly. Knows sometimes words are the hardest thing about being so quick with numbers, but Race nods against him. Hums when Spot's hands go to his waist and just take hold.

"This is good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Race's eyes shine with a little extra—something. That same fondness he gets when he talks about his job, and the want bleeds into the forefront of Spot's mind before he can stop it.

The thing is, Spot knows Race likes it at his place, feels safe when he's around; if he hadn't before, their little half-nap a bit ago would've been sign enough. Not so often Race actually verbalizes it, but. He  _ is _ happy. Radiates off him.

Spot can relate, honestly. Spending time with Race is like getting woken up by the sun every morning. Like Spot feels warmer just being in the same room.

It's not just him. Race is just one of those people that other people like: snarky and good-looking and fun. Davey would call it a case of an  _ addictive personality _ and make eyes at Jack, the two of them already graduated and moved into an apartment downtown, rings bought and hidden and waiting at 25 years old...

Spot can't help but think about it, looking at Race now.

_ Lord a'mighty. _ Racetrack Higgins and a place that's all theirs, and suddenly Spot wants it so fiercely that for a second he can't breathe.

Sits there stricken. It's embarrassing.

Luckily, before he can get all gross and misty-eyed about it, Race tugs him out of his own head, pulling at his shoulder, impatient to a fault. "Baby."

Spot blinks at him, flush up the back of his neck. "Sorry. Just—spacin'."

Race raises his eyebrows but maintains his sweet little smile. "I'm fine, y'know," he says. "I—like, really did need to relax. Probably woulda been way worse off if you hadn't called me on it."

"I know how you get," Spot tells him softly. Technically, that wasn't even on his mind, but he'll let Race think it was for the time being. A conversation for a later date.

"Yeah. Just. Nice to not think about stuff for a while."

Spot nods, kissing the corner of Race's mouth. "I'm with you."

_ With him. _ Spot certainly is. Long as Race'll have him, and he means it.

When Race kisses him proper again, it's more chaste, but his hips keep rocking like he's got an agenda, like he can't even think to stop himself. "Okay," he says against Spot's mouth, "this is real nice."

"Uh-huh."

"But I'm kinda... I can't lie, I might need your mouth on my whole sorta neck area, like, yesterday..."

Spot doesn't take the cue to laugh, even though Race is looking at him sort of like he's nervous. Waiting for that acceptance, Spot knows, but instead. "That's a real thing for you, huh."

This tiny little spotlight smile, half-shrug. "I dunno. You don't think it's hot?"

"Oh, no, I think it's plenty hot," Spot replies, bringing one hand up to thumb at the base of Race's neck, feeling the thrum of his breathing. "But, I mean. Can't say I know anybody else who makes that big a deal—" 

"It's totally hot," Race cuts him off. Just a little petulant, joking, relieved. "Like. Pressing on the marks 'n stuff later."

_ Whew. _ This boy. This time Spot does laugh, whistles at him, kisses up under the smooth of his jaw just to feel him shake. "So you're all good, then."

"Yeah," Race sighs. Not all the way true, even though he  _ is _ better, but his hips flex again. Involuntary. Long line of his dick straining at the front of those stupid tight jeans he always wears; must be so pent up to want it this bad. "Go nuts."

_ "Go nuts," _ Spot mocks quietly. Does it anyway, though.

The second Spot's mouth falls open against his skin, Race is practically vibrating. Kinda funny, almost, how sensitive he is to this type of giving, and it makes Spot want to grin, but he doesn't. Not at the moment. Plenty of time for gloating later. Now, he just uses his teeth for something a little more productive, makes Race tremble and clutch at him. Gasp like a fish out of water. It's awful endearing. "God, you're so  _ good. _ You're so good at this."

Spot hums at the praise. Like a light turning on in his gut, just a little something extra. Hard twitch where there wasn't one before, when Race's hand curls into his hair and tugs.

Doing this is one of Spot's favorite parts, if he's honest. Race is receptive and pliant and willing to take anything Spot gives him, which of course is pretty good, but even if he weren't as vocal about it, it would still be this—condensed sort of headrush. Gets Spot all sorts of dizzy to make Race feel good like this.

When Spot grabs his chin and tilts his head to one side, Race swears, baring more of his shoulder and pulling sharply at Spot's hair, enough to make him hiss. "Don't know what it is about you and your  _ fucking _ mouth—"

"Thanks for the glowing review," Spot pulls back to grin at him. Another flicker of extra.  _ And what else. _ "I'll—send your compliments to the chef, how's that."

Race socks him on the shoulder, laughs, high and desperate. "You fuckin' dork."

"Hey, thanks, pal."

Race scrunches his nose at him, urges Spot back to where he was before, and Spot goes. Because that's always been a part of it, really. Spot will always go where Race tells him to.

It's a long while before Race makes him pull off. Long while in which Spot absolutely wrecks his shop, leaves Race panting and whiny; Spot can't help but admire his handiwork afterwards. "God. That looks so good."

"Yeah?" Race asks breathlessly. Gorgeous fuckin' guy all laid out for him, his whole face flushed high up. Both his shoulders and the sides of his neck all covered in these rapidly purpling marks in the shape of Spot's mouth, and he won't stop fucking shaking, the hand that isn't in Spot's hair twitching with effort.

"Fuck, you're really hard," Spot says. Kind of without meaning to.

Race laughs again, changes it to a moan halfway through when Spot grabs hard at the base of his neck and thumbs over a mark on his collarbone. "Yeah. Yeah.  _ Shit. _ Okay, lemme get—out of my—"

Spot shakes his head and kisses him. Mouth feels cold and strange after mauling the hell out of Race's shoulder for so long, but that just makes it better when Race whines and lets Spot maneuver them over, press him back into the bunched-up pillows.

Mostly, Spot wants to kiss him till his lips go numb, but Race pulls away, smacking at his shoulder. "Lemme take my  _ clothes _ off, you animal."

Spot rolls his eyes but unbuttons Race's jeans, tugs them off for him and tosses them on the floor next to his bed, which Race glances at reproachfully but doesn't make a fuss about. Especially not when Spot digs his fingers in at his shoulder. Makes him choke off a groan so sweet Spot licks the rest out of him, all tongue and teeth.

"Keep this on," Spot tells him, tugging at his pullover. Breath hot and shaking against his mouth. "Okay?"

Race nods  _ so _ fast. "Okay," he says, trembly, this desperate little sound. "Fuck, c'mon, hurry up."

Spot doesn't make him wait for it. If it were any other time, he'd probably draw it out at least a little, but the look in Race's eyes makes him think it's not such a good idea. Needs it  _ bad. _ Needs it in a way that makes him pull hard at the front of Spot's tank top when Spot reaches into his briefs and strokes him.

Race sighs, lets his head fall back. His legs slide against the comforter, bending around Spot's shoulders, miles long and skinnier than fuck. Looks so damn good when he lets Spot touch him, his eyebrows upturning like he's gonna cry. Wishes he'd open those big blue eyes of his, talk him through it some, but Spot isn't so picky as all that; does want one thing in particular, though, now that he's here. "Sorta wanna blow you." 

Race shivers a little. "Shit."

"Can I?"

_ "Shit," _ Race groans, covering his eyes. "Yeah. Fuck. By all means."

Spot can't help but smile, kisses him once. "You're an idiot."

"Well, what's that say about you, then," Race replies, closing his eyes and letting his arms idle above his head, hands holding his elbows. Lifts his hips a little so Spot can slide his boxers down to his thighs.

God. Spot can't hardly stop looking at him, drinking it all in like he's never seen any of it before. Miles and miles of smart-mouth pretty boy, covered in teeth marks with his glasses still on, his hair all fucked up. Cock slick and pink-flushed on his stomach, so hard he's twitching, and Spot licks his hipbone, hard little reminder to flatten his tongue against.

Race giggles a little hysterically. Shifts his hips up. "God. Don't fuck with me right now, I'm gonna kick the shit out of you."

"You won't," Spot murmurs, drawing a line up Race's dick with his tongue, which makes him sob, muffled in his bicep.

Spot's gag reflex isn't bad. Better than Race's, which Spot  _ does _ in fact hold over his head, thank you, but it's nothing special. Has to suppress it a little when he gets his mouth around him proper, 'cause Race's hips piston off the bed so fast Spot has to hold them down with one hand. Gags but doesn't pull off to cough, hard seize of his throat.

It's all  _ incredibly _ worth it for the way Race gets so loud so quick, though; never been the type to majorly lose his filter in the sack, but today must be an exception to the rule. Race sounds like he's in tears when he babbles,  _ "Fuck, _ sorry, sorry, sorry, didn't mean to..."

It's alright. More than alright, where Spot's concerned. To emphasize it, Spot swallows hard around him, tasting all clean and flush, does that thing with his tongue he knows Race likes until he's keening.

No pulled punches, not so much fanfare. And no teasing, no matter how much of it Spot would usually employ. Just eyes-closed focusing, feeding off the sounds Race is making and the long hands in his hair. Sweet mouth above him begging so pretty he can hardly stand it. Spot rides out the harsh pull, loses himself in it, drowsy, swooning downwards until Race is beating at his shoulder.

"Don't wanna come yet," he's pleading, his knees squeezing at Spot's biceps. "Don't make me come yet— _ baby." _

Spot opens his eyes to look at him 'n just about faints; the look on Racer's face is nearly scary. How—wild he looks, almost. Spot lets Race's dick slide out of his mouth and reaches down to adjust himself, his jaw twinging after being open for so long. "You okay?"

It comes out a little hoarse. Race makes a sound like he's absolutely devastated, tossing his glasses on the bedside table and drawing Spot up to kiss him by his hair.

"God, you look so fucking good when you do that," he says desperately, in between these kisses that are more bite than anything, that shock the breath right out of Spot's chest. "I swear. You look so fucking good."

They kind of can't get any closer, but Spot does his damndest. Always goes a little crazy when Race tells him how good he's doing, so it's like he's crawling down Race's throat, nearly, his hard-on pressing right into the swell of one of Race's thighs. "You too," he manages. "Certain nobody looks better gettin' head than you, if it means anything."

Race hiccup-laughs, both hands on his face, tongue between his teeth. "Oh, great, I'm—goin' for the gold this year, actually..."

More kissing. When Spot presses up between Race's legs to reach him, Race wiggles so his briefs are shimmying further down his thighs. Spot wants to laugh at it, nearly. Still takes the small interruption in stride, grinding against him real slow so Race groans out loud. Drops his head to Spot's shoulder.

"So fuckin' pretty," Spot tells him, scrapes his teeth on a mark he'd made earlier.

"That's you," Race says distractedly. "Here, let me—"

He nudges Spot back far enough so he can actually kick his briefs off. Spot can actually see him trying to choose if it's worth it to get up and put his clothes away properly, and then the deep breath when he decides it isn't, chewing his bottom lip as he tosses them in the general direction of his jeans.

Spot strokes his thumb on the outside of Race's knee. "You good?"

Race scrunches up his nose at him, this bright little smile on his face. It's hard for him to leave his clothes out. Has a weird fucking thing about them being on the floor and in the way, but he makes an active effort to be a little untidy every now and then, which makes Spot want to kiss him for being brave. Doesn't get a chance, though, because Race tugs at him. "Okay, you—scooch up this way, we're sixty-nining."

That tugs a laugh out of him, surprised. "We—alright. Sure."

Only when they're properly in position and Race draws his dick out of his board shorts does Spot realize how much he's been waiting for this, hisses, tosses his head back and shuts his eyes when Race mouths over the tip of it.  _ "Fuck. _ Yeah."

"Yeah," Race echoes, voice wavering. He noses over Spot's cock, slides a hand over the inside of his thigh, and Spot lifts his hips just a bit; can't help it.

"You're good, doll," Spot breathes. Scratches down over Race's legs, digging in his nails. "You're so good. I gotcha."

That does it. Race whines, shifts his hips back and lets his mouth fall open. Properly takes Spot as far down as he can manage, and it's Spot's turn to keep his hips under control.

Sixty-nining's never been one of Race's strongest areas. 'Course, he's good at the technical aspects, making up for what he lacks in skill in enthusiasm, but multitasking during sex isn't really—well, something he's good at. Never slacks on purpose, obviously, and it's also sorta hot that he can't pull himself together enough to give as good as he's getting. Just not something they go for all the time.

Doesn't seem to be a problem today, however.

Today, there's a kind of determination behind it—like he's grounding himself, like he's really trying to give himself this. Give Spot this. Smooth and solid and careful, like he's working out a problem that needs solving.

It's  _ good. _ Spot groans, a little indulgent about it. He'd been neglecting himself a little. Not on purpose, just been focusing on upholding his end, but not having to keep burning a hole through his shorts feels fucking awesome. Kinda tempted to just lie back and enjoy it for a while, but. Decides to lick the pad of his thumb instead, rub a few careful little circles over the hole in front of him, and Race whimpers, shivering hard.

Probably won't fuck him. Seems like too much effort to go to for an orgasm, least for the moment—but it's fun to pretend.

Spot laves his tongue against it, feels the flex of it. Pushes his index finger in—he's tight, of course, he's still fucking stressed—angles it around to see if he can get it just right, and Race pulls off to look indignantly over one shoulder. "Problem, bud?"

"You're—not playin' it fair," he protests, flushed and whiny, and Spot can feel himself twitch in one of Race's hands.

"I mean, nobody said I had to..." Spot can't help saying. "God. You feel good."

Race sighs at him.  _ "You _ feel good," he replies, sounding weirdly emotional about it. "You feel really good. Don't stop."

"Nobody's stopping, believe you me." It's—sort of funny; Race doesn't really have a top lip, so it disappears when he smiles, but with the way he's biting his bottom one it shows right through. "Hey, c'mon. Right now it's just 'nine.'"

Race half-laughs, sighing, burying his face in Spot's thigh. And then that gorgeous mouth's back on him, and Spot's rolling his hips and cursing out loud, not realizing how hard his nails are digging into Race's hips until Race is tugging at his tank top.

They knew when they started this it wasn't going to last very long. Race groans around Spot's cock every time Spot does something particularly clever with his tongue, pulls off to suck a mark into his thigh; anything, he's so close. Nearly kicks him when Spot crooks two fingers against his prostate, and Spot has to stop or risk bodily harm, but. It's so good. So fucking hot, the way Spot can feel it whenever he does something Race likes.

And Race's determination, too. Wanting to get something done, get it done  _ right— _ Spot can feel it in every movement, Race's desire to string him out, work him up.

It's a good thing to feel, even though this part of it isn't supposed to be some sort of contest—but Spot finds himself holding out anyway. Determined not to come until Race does, but with Race trembling and moaning around him, around his fingers, it seems like it's not a sure thing. Seems like Race may be the one working out all his stress, but Spot's feeling the fallout right about now: so hard he can feel it in his teeth, the urge to fuck upwards, bite down hard, keep taking and riding it out through the roof of his mouth.

So he turns the heat up.

It's a little mean, but it does the job: one hand around Race's dick, a thumb at his perineum, and two fingers curling downward. Race's knees squeeze hard at Spot's midriff, and Spot knows he's close but remarks on it anyway, just to be a shit: "Danger, Will Robinson."

"Shut your—shut  _ up, _ shut up," Race gasps, his deft fingers loose at the base of Spot's cock. "Shut up, oh my god, I hate you—"

"I love you," Spot says matter-of-factly, thumbing over the head of Race's dick with one of his hands, and Race comes wailing, pulled off with his face pressed into Spot's blankets. Sharp clench-pulse, striping thick over Spot's fingers while Spot croons to him,  _ yes, good, there's my pretty guy _ until he calms down.

"Alright, alright, out," Race finally says weakly, after a good few moments, the inside of him still flexing—which reminds Spot suddenly of how uncomfortably hard he is. Twitching, practically, still in Race's hand. "Out. Lemme finish you off, okay?" He shivers with his whole body.  _ "Jesus. _ Actually, I think I need a minute. I haven't come that hard in—in—"

"It's okay," Spot says, amused, pulling his fingers out and away, leaning over to grab the wet wipes from underneath his bedside table. "You do this a lot when we're sixty-nining."

Race turns over and flops beside Spot on the bed. Which makes for a comical picture 'cause he's got come on the hem of his sweatshirt. "I do  _ not." _

"You do."

"I do not!" Race protests, panting.

"You a hundred percent do," Spot replies, his head spinning a little as he takes himself in hand. "Fuck me."

Race blinks balefully at Spot, his cheeks still flushed. He swipes the hair off his forehead, newly dark with sweat, and blows all of his air out. "I mean, I would, if I could get it up again... Pay you back for being so nice to me."

_ What a witty retort, _ Spot would probably say, in different circumstances.  _ Maybe it would've been wittier if you'd never said it before.  _ But his brain's too busy latching on to that image, feverishly replicating the idea. Picturing himself bent over his own bed, Race pressed full-body against him and inside him, too, and all Spot can do is groan through his teeth.

"Oh, okay," Race says, scooching down so he's at eye level with Spot's cock. "Okay, you can—do the face, if you want."

"Really?" Spot grinds out. Moves faster, faster,  _ close. _

"Oh, yeah. I mean—don't get any in my hair, 'cause that's like, the worst," Race babbles, and the image of Race with marks all over his neck, come on his face, glaring up at Spot and tucking barely-spared curls behind one ear,  _ I'm all gross now, _ is what finally does it; the sound that comes from him is one he barely recognizes, can't even open his eyes to see the result until after he's breathed it all out.

Wordlessly, without opening his eyes, he makes grabby hands in Race's direction, and then they're kissing, the taste of himself sharp and strange but not unpleasant. For a while, that's all Spot can bring himself to focus on: Race's tongue in his mouth, the quiet hum of his fan.

His eyelids feel heavy when he finally opens them, urges Race away with a hand on his jaw. "You look really good."

And he does. As pretty a picture as he's been all day: white arcs across one cheek, partly at the corner of his mouth, and he's still marked up, though now they've flushed a deep indigo. Spot tugs on the collar of the sweatshirt, and Race loosely entwines their fingers, a goofy smile on his face. "I know. Did you get any in my hair?"

Spot checks. "Not...a lot?"

Race  _ eugh _ s at him, which makes Spot laugh. He passes Race the wet wipes, which he takes gratefully, and it probably shouldn't, but watching Race clean himself up has Spot thinking again about asking him to stay longer. Asking him to keep more at Spot's place than just a toothbrush.

He doesn't say it. Doesn't quite get there, because now's not quite the time, but looking at Race now—pawing clumsily at his clumped up eyelashes, still naked from the waist down—Spot thinks he might say yes. Smiles. Reclines on his elbows to watch it. "You feel any better now?"

Race notices him looking. Smiles back twice as hard, and kisses him once, quickly; he tastes like soap and clean, spit-shine. "A lot." He sighs, shakes his head out, then gets up, goes to grab his boxers. "Gonna go wash my  _ hair _ again," he says pointedly over one shoulder, "'cause  _ somebody _ couldn't point his dick in the right direction..."

Spot scoffs, but the needling makes him warm on the inside. "Okay, you—probably could just wash in the fucking sink, you  _ just _ showered. Don't you have homework to do?"

One last smile, and, "It can wait," before Race disappears into the bathroom, the door left open. A clear invitation.

Spot smiles stupidly at the bathroom door, and then at Race's jeans, still in a heap on the floor.

It can wait. They have time.

**Author's Note:**

> leave me a comment if u enjoyed!!!
> 
> come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://fakenewsies.tumblr.com/)


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